


All the Best of What We've Done is Yet to Come

by thisismy_design (thisismydesignn)



Category: Vampire Diaries (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-18
Updated: 2012-03-18
Packaged: 2017-11-02 04:09:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,939
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/364819
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thisismydesignn/pseuds/thisismy_design
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This house is full of ghosts, but it's the living who haunt it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All the Best of What We've Done is Yet to Come

**Author's Note:**

> Set at the end of 3x01, _The Birthday_ , and very briefly 3x02, _The Hybrid_. Spoilers for the end of Season 2. Mentions of Damon/Alaric. Warnings for run-on sentences and semicolon abuse. Title from "Losing Your Memory" by Ryan Star.

“You can do all this alone now. You can do it better without me.”

Elena refuses to look at the bags in his hands, acknowledge the possibility that he might walk out that door, leave them, leave _her_ here to—to survive, whatever that even means now. But she’s frozen and he isn’t turning back, and his hand is on the door handle by the time she finds her voice, everything she hasn’t let herself admit twisted and strangled into one word. _“Ric.”_

He hears it, or the shell of it, and it’s enough to make him hesitate, turn back; the door’s still shut, and maybe, Elena thinks, maybe she can—

She stops thinking.

Takes a step toward him, another, heels left behind as she makes her way toward him on bare feet, not daring to let herself speak again, not yet. Fitting herself between him and the door, she braces her hands on the wood behind her, voice still sticking in her throat as she tries to find the words to say, some way to make him stay. Her eyes are fixed on her feet and she can’t bring herself to look up at him, to see the utter emptiness that’s lurked behind his gaze since—since Jenna, since Isobel, really, maybe as long as she’s known him, and that _hurts,_ because she feels it, feels too much and sometimes she wishes she couldn’t feel anything, and maybe they’re not so different after all.

He gives her a minute, two, the silence stretching painfully until he can’t take it, feels like he’s choking or on the verge of a scream, the way this house has started to feel too small, too full of ghosts, and he’s just another one, just a shadow that she’s clinging to because she thinks there’s no one else. She doesn’t seem to realize that alone is better for both of them, healthier, and he doesn’t know if it’s the leftover grief or the guilt but he sighs, hitches the strap of the bag over his shoulder once more and starts to speak. “Elena—“

And when her eyes meet his, he knows it’s something else entirely.

This is what the entire summer has been leading to, lingering gazes when he thought she wasn’t looking, good night hugs that would last a fraction of a second longer than they should, her fingers warm on his skin as she’d reach past him to fix the coffee maker, so casual they hadn’t even noticed: a routine so instinctive and still so decidedly unnatural that one seemed to balance the other, but the scales are tipping quickly, and neither is sure how to right them again.

Neither is sure they want to.

It’s the emptiness, Elena thinks; it’s there, it’s always there, but sometimes it’s dulled, and sometimes it’s the alcohol and sometimes it’s Damon but sometimes, she thinks, it’s _her,_ and she can see it now, a different sort of emptiness, a hunger, and she swallows, pulse frantic beneath her skin. She’s trembling, and she’s terrified, but she’s far from uncertain; her shaking hands slip from the wood behind her and reach up to press to Alaric’s chest, just enough to know he’s real, not enough to push him away, eyes locked with his even as he tries so hard not to see what’s right in front of him.

When his eyes darken but don’t shut, something within her twists and she knows she’s won, or maybe they’ve both just lost more than they can bear to remember.

Her hands slip to his waist as one bag drops from his fingers, the other from his shoulder, dead weight that does nothing to lighten his heart. Her touch is soft through his shirt, even gentler than he’d imagined—and he _had_ imagined it, though he’d never admit it to anyone, except maybe Damon, drunk on bourbon and the taste of the vampire’s tongue, because Damon knew the things he wouldn’t even admit to himself—and the lightest of touches nearly breaks him in two, makes him wonder which of them is the fragile one, if maybe their shards could fit into one another, into the empty places left behind.

This time when her fingers slip back to his chest, he catches them between his own, and there’s so many things he should say, should stop this, should walk away, out the door and not let himself turn back, but he’s never been good at doing what he should. He’s good at drowning everything out, alcohol and sex his preferred sedatives as he lets himself _forget,_ like it doesn’t matter, but it does, too much, and why should this be any different? So he lets himself see her, _really_ see her, feels her soft hands beneath his own and just breathes, and that’s when he realizes she’s no longer shaking.

Their lips meet too soft, too careful, a kiss that’s everything it should be and nothing like they need. There’s a lingering, painful moment where neither of them can quite look at the other, hands still caught between their bodies; then Elena draws a shaky breath and lets herself meet his eyes and this time, _this_ time they get it right. Alaric presses her back against the door, kisses hot and hard, lips parted as they breathe each other in and suffocate at the same time. His tongue in her mouth, her teeth caught around his lower lip, and when she draws blood, they both can’t help but laugh, bitter, _damn vampires;_ her tongue touches the split skin and it stings but he’s had worse, so much worse, and _after all, how many times can you die before it changes you?_ But he shoves the thought to the back of his mind, releases Elena’s hands to wrap his arms around her body, lift her ever so slightly, solid wood at her back and fingers grasping at the front of his shirt. Her arms circle his neck, letting him hold her up, and she goes pliant in his grip, lips still fierce against his own but body yielding, _wanting._ His hands slip lower, hitching her body higher, and her legs wrap around his waist too easily—they shouldn’t _fit_ like they do, like convoluted puzzle pieces, worn at the edges until they slip into place with just a whisper in the right direction.

She pushes at his shirt, shoving the dark fabric down his arms, his back, until he’s forced to set her down, shuck it off himself; he toes his shoes off for good measure, and when he manages to look back up at her, there’s something burning in her gaze, a fire he’s seen before, a fire that’s always meant _Stefan,_ except when it’s meant _Damon,_ but this one is all his own, and he’s still stunned as she takes his hand and leads him upstairs— _can’t sleep in your parents’ room, can’t sleep in…in hers, but yours?—_ and pulls him toward her by the front of his remaining shirt, kissing him open-mouthed and hungry as she draws him down beside her on the bed.

Their kisses are more languid now, her hands pushing up beneath his sleeves, fingers touching his cheek, curious but deft, making sure that _he’s here, this is real,_ finally convinced that he’s not going anywhere. And he isn’t—couldn’t if he tried, unless she wanted him gone, and her tongue against his, the feel of her body beneath his hands tells him that’s far from true—he’s powerless and it’s just the kind of surrender that he hates himself for but he kisses back and tells himself he won’t regret a thing.

His hands skim over her shoulders, one strap of her dress slipping down, following the path of his fingers; her breath hitches in her throat, catching between their mouths, and he freezes even as she arches into his touch, the heat of her body sliding closer. He pulls back, studies her face carefully, shining bruised lips and wide eyes telling him everything he wants to hear even as he asks it, again and again, _“Is this okay?”_ when he knows perfectly well it’s anything but. Still he lets himself tug down the top of her dress, just enough to _feel,_ because he can’t _look,_ not yet ready to see the delicate body beneath his hands, as though they’re not already leagues past the point of no return. He keeps kissing her as calloused thumbs circle her nipples, already hard beneath his touch; her body yields to his even as her actions grow more insistent, tugging at the hem of his shirt until he drags himself away from her lips, her skin, so she can pull it over his head. With even the slightest bit of space between them, they can breathe, and for a moment their eyes are fixed on one another, ragged shudders filling the silence; Elena is the first to move, shoving her dress the rest of the way down her body, and Alaric follows suit before he has time to think, undoing his jeans and pushing them off, reaching for Elena before his clothes have even hit the floor. There’s no semblance of resistance or hesitation left in the way they’re tangled up in one another, limbs entwined, his body above her own and hands in her hair, her legs spread just enough for him to settle between them, kisses torn between _all the time in the world_ and _never enough._

Her body twists beneath his, hips pressing up, bittersweet torture as he tries to hold himself back even though he knows what she wants, what they both want, words unnecessary as their hands explore without restraint, until he has to pull back, has to _look._ She shivers, blushes underneath his gaze, but she smiles too, and he kisses her flushed cheeks, the jut of her collarbone, her breasts, stomach, ever lower, pausing between her legs. His stubble is rough against her smooth thighs, but she doesn’t seem to mind, combing her fingers through his hair as he hooks his thumbs into the waistband of her panties and tugs them down, off, and when he looks up once more her pupils are blown, hair a mess against the pillows, and the word slips out before he can stop it—

“Beautiful.”

Her fingers tighten in his hair, eyes shining, and he kisses the inside of her thigh, running a finger along the cleft between her legs, already so wet (for him, he thinks, and decides that of all the bad decisions he’s made, this one is by far the best); his tongue follows the path of his fingers, circling her clit as her head falls back with a sigh, thighs trembling ever so slightly. The tips of his fingers tease at her entrance, and she spreads her legs wider, hooking an ankle around his side to hold him there, to pull him in. His tongue dips inside, tasting, followed by his fingers; his mouth teases her clit, face buried between her thighs even as he adds a second finger, and she’s close, so close, it’s been months, felt like years, but this isn’t quite what she wants, not yet. She pulls him back up her body, smiling ever so slightly at his resistance as she kisses him, tasting herself on his tongue and barely managing, “I want…”

He presses his forehead to hers, eyes locked but lips too distant to kiss, as he whispers, “Tell me, Elena. Tell me what you want.” He needs to hear her say it, needs to know that she _knows,_ and her eyes grow wide again, bright, absolutely wrecked and impossibly innocent at once and he can’t bear it, finds himself breaking his own unspoken rule, tilting her chin up to capture her lips in another sweet kiss.

“I w—I need you inside me,” she tells him when they break apart, breath hot between their mouths; he has to stop, shut his eyes, collect himself for a moment, and when he looks at her once more he’s met with a smile and a gesture toward the nightstand.

She pulls his boxers down as he struggles with the foil in his hand, trying to ignore the way her tongue darts to the corner of her mouth, wets her lips, the way she looks up at him and offers to help. He sighs as he finally gets the condom on, even his own hand a relief, for however brief a moment; then she’s pulling him down to her body once more, urging him on, hooking an ankle around the back of his thigh and drawing him in with a moan to match his own, slow but steady and he pauses, brushes her hair back from her face, thinks, _I’m still not sure you’re real._

He’s more careful than he needs to be—he’s under no illusions about her relationship with Stefan, tries not to imagine three lifetimes of experience, thinks of Damon’s mouth around his cock and knows it’s hopeless—but soon enough they’ve found their rhythm, thrusts deep, just this side of too slow, and Alaric’s mesmerized by the gasps that escape each time he rocks into her body. Their kisses are little more than empty presses of lips, tongues, the occasional tug of teeth, moans escaping too often for them to do more than breathe the same air and try to get _closer_ and closer still.

She knows he’s holding back, can feel his body shaking against hers and she arches up into him, whispering against his ear, “Come on, Ric,” breath stuttering in her throat until she can find her voice again. _“Come for me.”_

He’s guarded as he meets her eyes, but one glimpse is enough to tell him that this is what she wants, and he lets what’s left of his self-control shatter, his breathing growing ragged, her moans desperate as he thrusts, and he’s sure it’s too much, she’s going to shatter beneath his touch—

But she breaks in another way entirely, clenching around him, trembling, hips rolling against his as her lips part, eyes shut, teeth biting at the corner of her mouth as she relaxes, quakes again; it takes him only another thrust, two, before he’s spilling into the condom, into _her,_ and they tremble together for a moment, eyes open just enough to _look,_ shallow breath warm against their lips. She holds him there, deep inside, as she kisses him, tongue between his teeth, hands pressing to his skin, heat and sweat to match her own. He pulls out careful, slow, but still she reaches for him, the emptiness of her body echoing the emptiness she’s seen behind his eyes. It’s still there as she runs a hand through his hair, but when he looks up at her, it’s _different_ , and it’s like something’s fallen into place; he kisses her softly and pulls away to tie off the condom, toss it in the trash, fingers skimming lightly between her thighs as he makes his way back to her side, letting her legs tangle with his on top of the sheets. Her eyes slip shut at his touch and he kisses her eyelids, bringing his hand up to her side instead, feeling as much as hearing her sigh—of frustration, then contentment—and kissing it away. “Go to sleep, Elena,” he tells her, and she buries her face into his chest, arms wrapping around his waist and he does the same, tucking her hair behind her ear and his chin above her head, dropping a kiss to her cheek as her breathing grows deep, chest rising and falling slowly in his arms.

***

She wakes the next morning to an empty bed and an emptier heart, blanket tucked too carefully around her naked form; she tugs a hand through her hair reflexively, sitting up—

And she couldn’t miss the note if she wanted to, white slip of paper with dark, bold letters she knows too well _(classroom chalkboard, homework assignments, don’t think, don’t think)._ She reaches for the paper but can’t bring herself to read it, allows herself a moment’s hope, wrapping the blanket around her and making her way to the top of the stairs, to look down at the front door, glance over to the couch, but. The bags are gone, the couch is bare, and that hurts more than the empty bed, tears stinging behind her eyes, but she’s still holding the note, the note she doesn’t want to read, the note she _must_ read, and unwilling eyes make their way to the words once more, taking them in, wishing she couldn’t.

_I always say the wrong thing but this time I don’t think there’s a right thing to say. You deserve better. We both know that. Giving up on me doesn’t mean you have to give up on yourself. x_

She sinks down at the top of the steps, crumpling the paper between her fingers and clutching the blanket tight around herself, shaking, and she lets the tears fall; angry tears, guilty tears, tears of regret and hurt but mostly tears that scream his name, the name she’d never let herself consider, the name that lingers on her lips with the taste of his skin, bourbon and spice, the name that she can’t voice, the name she won’t let escape.

It _shouldn’t_ feel right, and that’s what dragged him away. It’s also what will make him stay.

***

 _You’re not a lost cause, Ric,_ she tells him.  _You’re just…lost. But so am I. We’re kind of fit for each other._

He comes home.


End file.
